Amelia and Simplicity

I am sitting on my terrace in Amelia, Italy, looking at grassy hills, olive trees, and in the distance, the old Roman town surrounded by a old stone wall complete with those little hole from which to shoot arrows. (My ancient architecture brain is failing me). I feel like I'm in summer camp with all the new things to explore, but an adult summer camp full of scents, sounds and tastes that only an adventurous creature would want to experience.

So far I've walked miles, found myself amongst buildings from 1134 (which I'll note is mildly inaccurate) navigated a grocery store, and sat at a corner cafe for hours. Not bad. What I've discovered are the simple things. Sitting with a coffee, talking. The smell of rain. The sweet taste of a simple slice of bread and butter. A beautiful red tomato. Fresh garlic with the stems still attached, opening a fresh container of mozzarella and having it feel just like it did when I made it from scratch. In a place where sensory overload is entirely possible, it's the simple things that are prized.

Since I started this entry, I've found myself in the garden of a palazzo owned by the same family for nearly 500 years. I sat with my classmates and some staff at a pizzeria over, I think, 10 litres of wine. The pizza I ate...I don't think there are words. It was topped with sausage, spicy pepperoni, bell peppers and mozzarella. Mama, the owner, will take good care of us while we're here, I've been told. If she lets me sit, laugh, eat and drink for hours like we did, I'm sure we'll all be just fine.

Today, I'm sitting in Porto Vino, having a glass of wine and a bit of salsicce secche. I've never had such delicious sausage, salami, and ham as I have here. I mean, it's hard to go wrong with a pig. They're mighty tasty. But this...un-effing believable. Truly. I think I need a new vocabulary. I don't own the words that could possibly describe the festival of flavors in my mouth. The casing has aged and dried to a chewy perfection. The meat is spiced with earthy pepper, leaving a sophisticated zip on your tongue. The little bits of fat melt in your mouth like butter and it coats your tongue with a duvet of little pig shaped clouds. And the olive oil on my bread. Fruit and earth and sweet and chewy and...and...and...I don't think I could ever need anything other than what's on my plate right at this moment. If I walked into the teeny, narrow Medieval street right now and was run over by a crazy driver in a Fiat taking that hairpin turn way too quickly, it would be okay.

I'm at the point of my siesta snack where I have just three bites left of my salsicce and a bit of bread and maybe a few sips of wine and I'm starting at it. I know when I take the next bite, it will be one fewer bite to my name. The next sip will be closer to an empty glass. This is all very sad. Until the next meal or snack and the next post...